


Can See For Miles

by summerstorm



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: American Idol S9, Community: kink_bingo, Exhibitionism, M/M, Photography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-08
Updated: 2010-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-10 00:03:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/93012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I won't even do video," Tim bargains, lowering his powershot. "I'll just take pictures. Tasteful ones. If worse comes to worst, you can say they're fake. I'm a bad enough photographer that people will totally believe you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can See For Miles

**Author's Note:**

> For the "photography/film" square on my 2010 kink_bingo card. \o/ Title from the Who song.

"I won't even do video," Tim bargains, lowering his powershot. "I'll just take pictures. _Tasteful_ pictures. If worse comes to worst, you can say they're fake. I'm a bad enough photographer that people will totally believe you."

He flashes a grin at Casey, and Casey can't figure out if he's serious or just attempting to manipulate him. If it's the latter, the fact that he can't tell probably means Tim's succeeding.

"I didn't think you were going to do video," Casey points out, composed in a way that echoes in his head as the calm before the storm. He's sitting on his bed, hands on his knees, and his jeans are beginning to feel too fucking tight, and he seems to have lost the ability to tell whether something's a good idea or one that couldn't possibly be any worse. Any other night, he would have stood his ground, but right now he's not even sure he _wants_ to try.

Tim just shrugs, and his smile takes on a hint of near cruel amusement.

This is ridiculous. When he told Tim they could do whatever he wanted without complaints after he got eliminated, Casey was expecting to be restrained somehow and teased to within an inch of his life. That's kind of the one thing Casey's always cut short—the kid's an enormous tease, and if he had his way they'd be running on a combined two hours of sleep every other day. He figured, given the chance, Tim would tie him up and try to make him beg. Hell, before Tim turned up with a camera, Casey was trying to figure out _how_ to beg. It's not really something that comes naturally to him. People have always been pretty good at giving him what he wants.

As it turns out, Tim's idea of no holds barred is turning Casey into his own personal porn flick.

"Can't you just, like, jerk off for me?" Tim adds, making it sound like he's asking for a cup of coffee or a different size of shoes. The complete triviality of his tone is a little disturbing, but it also makes Casey think he may have overreacted, which is probably what Tim was going for. Fuck him, he's such a little shit.

"_Can't you just, like,_ put down the camera?" Casey mirrors. It's bad enough he was the guy who took his shirt off at auditions for months. He doesn't want to add amateur porn filmed by Tim fucking Urban, supposedly religious Texan boy to the list of crap that distracts people from and off listening to his music.

"Okay," Tim says. It sounds like he's getting ready to reason with him. It doesn't bode well. "Seriously, just pictures. A dozen, tops," he says. "And I'll print them out myself, and delete all digital copies before you have time to man up and admit this is turning you on."

He lets his body fall back on the bed and his head drop back, and heaves a loud sigh. He can't even tell if it sounds exasperated or like he's about to give in. He has a bad feeling it's the latter. "No digital," he says, rubbing his eyes with his palm. Last resort.

"Oh," Tim says, and if he were in Casey's line of vision Casey imagines he'd be laughing himself to death right now. If there's a deer-in-headlights sound, that's the sound of Tim's voice right now. And then there's a little silence, and then Tim's tone perks up as he says, "That's okay, I have a Polaroid somewhere in here."

Casey sits up to make sure he hasn't imagined that and says, "You're joking," when he realizes Tim is rummaging in one of the bags he just packed with the determination of someone who knows exactly what he's looking for and where to find it. Casey can't even remember the last time Tim took less than five minutes to find a shirt. It's almost like the universe is punishing Casey for not saying no to Tim when he had the chance.

Tim is not joking, and Casey should have known that, because he recognizes the bulky camera on sight. If he remembers the story right, one of Tim's sisters is obsessed with Polaroids and made him take it to L.A. and use it so she could create some kind of artsy Idol journey thing. And Tim's actually made good on it.

"Where are you gonna tell your sisters the rest of the film went?"

Tim laughs heartily and says, "They won't ask." Then, fumbling with the camera, he says, "Lie back," and, "Look at me," and snaps a shot as soon as Casey complies.

"If these leak into the Internet, or the press, or _anywhere_," Casey warns, stern, pushing himself further into the bed until he can rest his head back against the wall, "I will hunt you down and have you killed. Don't think I can't. I'm a resourceful guy."

"Yeah, okay, that's awesome. I'm sure you are," Tim says, still grinning. "Undo your jeans?"

Casey unbuttons them without any ado and quietly asks, covering the sound of the zipper going down, "Are you going to talk me through this?"

"If I have to," says Tim cheerfully, "but it would look less contrived if you did like I'm not even here."

Casey laughs and pushes the jeans off his hips, cups himself over his briefs. He's half hard already, so that's not really the problem. The problem is he doesn't trust Tim not to misplace a handful of polaroids, though there's probably a clause in his contract prohibiting that. You shan't publicly release photographs of fellow contestants' balls or something.

All Casey needs to do to get into this is remember it's private, and an elimination present thing, and if he does this maybe when he gets the boot Tim will say yes to being gagged.

"You're worrying about realism?" he says, trying to focus on what's _in_ this room. Tim just shrugs. "And no, I don't think that'd be fair," he adds.

Tim lowers the camera and narrows his eyes, confused. "What wouldn't be?"

He gives himself a long, leisurely stroke, keeping his eyes on Tim's, which equals keeping his eyes on Tim's Polaroid. There's a camera pointed at him. It increments the intensity of just being watched by about a billion percent. "I can't get off on being filmed if I pretend none of this is _going_ on film," he says. Whether it's the admittance or just the talking, voicing that thought makes his cock twitch in his hand. His brain may not be on board with this whole situation, but it's in the silent minority.

The admittance—in this case it has to be the admittance—causes a full-body shudder in Tim, strong enough that Casey notices from a distance.

_Fuck_, he thinks, hissing and biting his lip, and shuts his eyes. His cock is fully hard now, begging to be touched, and he makes a ring with his thumb and forefinger around the base, squeezing lightly goodbye for a moment. His eyes stay closed as he unbuttons his shirt, aware that he's not alone but not so aware it stumps him. It falls to his sides easily, and he doesn't bother shrugging it off. He just rolls up his sleeves and wraps his hand around his dick, and hears himself breathe loudly in relief.

He hears the camera shuttle every now and then because it's kind of really loud, though it sounds far off, muffled by the buzzing in his ears. He knows when Tim steps closer and when he leans his knees on the bed. He knows there's a moment where he lets his head bend sideways and Tim snaps a shot of his neck, and another moment where he bends his knee and kicks a leg of his jeans off and is alert enough to hear a picture being taken, though he can't for his life pinpoint what of. Probably doesn't even want to know.

It's not much of a show, and there's not even any effort on his part to make it last long at all—Tim said a dozen pictures, and Casey's not going to give him room to change his mind without having a chance to change it back. And then Tim starts babbling at him, saying random shit in this breathy, whispery tone like he can't keep the words in, and Casey opens his eyes for a moment and sees him standing at the foot of the bed, holding the camera with one hand while the other's palming his hard dick over his pants.

Casey leans back and strokes himself harder as he hears the camera go again and comes so hard he doesn't even realize Tim's snapped another two pictures until he sees them, later.

One of them is focused on his face, tongue peeking out between the press of his lips and eyes closed tight but not as ridiculous as he thought it would be, and it's blurry around the edges, if unfortunately still clear enough to make out his thumb rubbing the head of his cock. The other one is a lot less subtle and features a more comprehensive angle, and it gets more and more embarrassing as Casey takes it in from the head down—mouth slack, chest heaving, splatters of come all over his stomach and his knuckles, down to his thighs, cock going soft with his fingers still bundled lax around the base.

There is absolutely nothing Casey can come up with about which Tim isn't, deep down, something of an adult, but there's something so determined and concise about the pictures Casey almost has trouble matching them to Tim—and maybe that's the reason he hasn't truly worried for one second Tim might do something stupid with them.

"I don't know that I'd call this 'tasteful,'" he tells Tim, and Tim shrugs unaffectedly.

"I'm pretty sure it counts as tasteful photography if it makes you want to lick the paper," Tim concludes.


End file.
